No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “For one purpose, Dr. Ennis schooled me about his life for the next three months. All he wanted in return was answers concerning his wife’s and child’s deaths. He just needed to know once and for all.”

  “Know it? You mean he expected you to discover Varga’s guilt before he died? Because otherwise, that makes no sense. The dead don’t know anything. And his wife and child already were.”

  “Once I’d discovered whatever I did, one way or the other, Henry would have his peace. He believed that.”

  “Mm,” I murmur. I could tell he was waiting for me to urge him on with his story, but I lean back in my seat and bite down on my bottom lip and bob my head. I hope he construes it as a ponderous gesture, when in fact, I’m simply ensuring I don’t open my mouth to ask the ten questions crowding my tongue. I had said I would listen for Archer’s sake. And no matter what I asked, Vale was obviously not going to let me lead this off-balance conversation.

  “Do you want to know where I live? What I do with my time?”

  I tilt my head and consider his questions. Did he think I obsessed about Henry Ennis in my spare time? “No.” I lie.

  “So, there’s nothing else you want to know?”

  “I’ve asked what I want to know, and you haven’t seen fit to enlighten me.” I clench my teeth.

  His eyes soften knowingly, and he sucks in his bottom lip for an instant. “Did you happen to see the sun this afternoon, at around three o’clock?”

  “Yeesss …”

  “And do you recall the night we … when we discovered magic under the skylight in my loft?” I remain silent, also trying not to move a muscle. He continues as though I need reminding, “We decided to relocate the bed beneath it. You said the wispy clouds around the moon reminded you of the day we really met, an entire year after we first passed each other in the hall. I still don’t know what I was doing there that night. Had your brother sent me out on assignment? He’d never done so before. Was it Dr. Mayhew’s doing? I can’t remember. Anyway, it seemed orchestrated that I should be there. … You were treating a woman whose sensory enhancer had spiked and caused her to blackout. I wanted to ease her mind—it seemed like that’s what I was supposed to do. … I was whispering in her ear about the wind on top of the Madison Building, and when I looked at you, you were—”

  What the fuck? “Do you have a point?” I snap.

  One corner of his mouth slants up a smidgen. “Nope. Just wanted to make sure you were still in there somewhere. I could always read you. Or maybe that was because you let me.”

  “Maybe.” I yank at the chain of my pocket watch again and get to my feet.

  “You’ve gotten pretty good at hiding behind your mask, River. Even takes longer for your eyes to change color.”

  “Mm-hm. I have to go. See yourself out.” It didn’t look as though he was going to tell me what he was doing in my father’s study the night of the fire.

  “Archer invited me to stay.”

  “The invitation must have gone out before he died,” I retort.

  Vale chuckles and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Without waiting to see if he follows, I dodge several potted ferns, an orange tree, and a lemon tree on my way through to the kitchen. I then hear the faint scuff of his boot against the threshold into the house proper and march resolutely through the dining room into the drawing room.

  “Uh—” Allen utters, his mouth hanging open as both he and Quinn stare at Vale, who comes to an abrupt halt behind me. He’s so close I can almost feel him.

  “Yes, it’s him,” Archer says from over the rim of his glass and then takes a slow sip of brandy.

  He couldn’t have said those three words a year ago? I skewer my brother—if only I really could—with my eyes. To my utter disgust, he just shrugs.

  A giddy, almost maniacal, expression transforms Quinn’s face. “What a day, hmm?” he says, coming forward and reaching around and past me for Vale’s hand. I sidestep out of the way.

  “Hello, Quinn.”

  “From what time do you hail? Sometime prior to your incarceration in August 2159. I cannot recall an inciting event before, though. And it would have had to be sufficiently dramatic, I think. And when did you arrive?”

  “I’ve—”

  “Just now was it? In the garret, the basement? Where were you deposited? This is absolutely astonishing. Perpetua didn’t so much as hiccup.” Quinn’s proud gaze skims over the walls and the ceiling of the room as if he wants to pat the house’s proverbial shoulders. Archer, Allen, and I exchange befuddled glances while Quinn goes on. “Perhaps the aftershocks are measurable. I will have to consider where meters might be best placed. But sorry, Vale, you must be confused. Come over here and sit. I need you to describe precisely what you were doing at the time you were transported.”

  “He’s been here as long as we have, Quinn. In hiding,” I say finally, my voice steady and sure.

  “But—”

  “Never mind, Quinn. Later,” Archer says.

  “Allen?” I prompt.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Let’s get your tour started.”

  “Hm?”

  “The unveiling, Bryce. Oh, and has Owen gone?” Maybe I have time to get cleaned up.

  “Owen?” Archer and Vale say together.

  “Yes. Owen.” Again, I look at Allen. “Bryce? Stop ogling Vale Henry Flynn Hennessy Ennis, or we might all get the wrong idea.”

  “Mr. Carr just left. He and his aunt will be joining us for dinner on Friday,” Archer supplies.

  I’m interested to know how that news went over, but I would much rather Owen Carr relieved my curiosity, so I don’t ask. I sigh loudly. “Allen!”

  “Yeah, River.”

  “Let’s go.” I stomp over to him and yank his sleeve. “I’m following you. The hell with the rest of them.”

  Ever since that day two Octobers ago, the doors to North wing of the house has been closed off. The renovations were completed first upstairs and throughout the rest of the house before anyone dared to consider a timeline for repairs to the salon, Marlowe’s study, and the library, his other favorite room. Then, six months ago, we decided that it was about time the once-beloved spaces got the attention they deserved. The problem was that neither Archer, Quinn nor I had the guts to oversee the job, and so, the task had fallen to our reliable man.

  Totally like him, Allen set about the overwhelming business with diligence, decisiveness, and tact. He had required so little feedback from us throughout the process that I often wanted to hug him simply for saving my fragile emotions the strain of having to think about it all.

  All he asked of us was part of one day to discuss the design and budget. And to that consultation, he’d come prepared with a list of questions and props that would get him going on his path.

  Instead of asking if we wanted a faithful restoration, he’d asked, “Would you prefer burgundies, taupes, and golds like before or maybe you’d like to see another palette this time?” He’d fanned out textile samples in pale blues, off-whites, and silver. And “Do you envision mahogany and cherry wood furnishings, or would you say blonde and pale woods are doable?” With a few questions, fabric samples, and newspaper clippings we came to realize one thing, again (the same fact that we’d troubled over when redoing Reid and Kinnari’s and Everly’s suites). A recreation of the rooms would be an unnecessarily painful reminder that our father was gone. It made little sense to restore them to their former life when the same couldn’t be done for Marlowe St. Clair.

  Ironically, today, his birthday, the renewed glory of the rooms would be unveiled. From here on, we would honor our father by utilizing the rooms he so loved in our own way. This strange goth monstrosity had been a novelty in the twenty-second century, as though an out-of-place, elaborate movie set. Now it’s home—like Willow wanted me to believe so long ago.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER OUR MEANDERING tour of the revived rooms, followed by story time—during which we learn of our
previously absent hero’s adventures—I take a seat at the very end of the elegant, ten-foot long, Parisian sofa situated smack-dab in the middle of our not-quite-but-almost brand spanking new library.

  I trace a light touch over a velveteen ivory leaf on a backdrop of palest gray-blue satin while silently praying Archer sits beside me and Vale next to him, so I don’t have to look at either of them. I’ll think of an excuse and make my escape in a few minutes. I need to think away from here.

  When Quinn moves to sit beside me instead, and Allen steps back a few paces toward the shellback chair against the wall nearer the door, Archer says, “Quinn, Allen, if you wouldn’t mind, we need to speak with River.”

  Fudge.

  Archer lowers himself into the armchair across from me, and Vale takes the seat next to him.

  “Right,” Allen says, turning on a heel. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

  “Th-thank you, Allen.”

  The always-neat handsome blond turns in the doorway and folds his hands behind his back.

  Casting an appreciative glance over the book-shelved walls filled with colorful leather-bound volumes, I manage, “It’s wonderful. Truly.” I feel a little apprehensive about being alone with Archer and Vale, wishing I could find the gumption to excuse myself. I’d prefer they let me ruminate over everything I’ve learned, which amounts to the fact that Archer, Marlowe, and Vale lied to us. And Archer and Vale had held back the truth for a really long time. I cannot let myself dwell on that last detail though; I might blow up into bits like a piñata right here all over the beautiful new Aubusson carpet.

  “Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to the project at first, but once everything started to come together, I realized I was enjoying myself. It was fun unpacking something every day, you know?”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind managing the renovation of the south rooms, then?” I stall.

  “We can talk about it later,” Allen says when Archer clears his throat. Allen casts me a lingering glance, frowning slightly in concern. Then he bobs his head in farewell at Archer, Quinn, and lastly Vale. Soon his footsteps are receding down the hall.

  “It was good to see you, Vale. I’m relieved you turned out not to be the villain we thought you were. Perhaps we’ll be seeing more of you,” Quinn says, the hint of a question in his tone. “And River, I failed to mention earlier that we found the old weathervane in the shrub you led us to investigate. I believe it to be a significant find. Allen—”

  “Quinn.” Archer interrupts tersely. “Another time.”

  “Yes.” My second older brother gives me a semi-sympathetic look too before quitting the room.

  I resume gazing out through the sheer curtain of the window a few feet to the right of Archer’s chair. Smooth velvet drapes the color of today’s earlier sky surrounds the windows. They seem to frame the tranquil scene beyond perfectly. It’s quiet out there—as it always is nowadays.

  I feel calmer watching the rope swing in the back of the yard sway to and fro. Willow and I would sit out there for hours at a time when I was small. She would sit on the ground on the opposite side of the giant oak and me on the swing (although not the same swing).

  My anger had been safely harnessed, but it was replaced with an unease that I’m afraid will be sticking around for some time. Apparently, Vale had been waiting for everyone’s presence—including and especially Archer’s—before answering the question I’d posed to him over two hours ago.

  “I’d been conferring with Marlowe and Archer for a few months—since July—working out a plan to deal with a certain top-secret investigation. It was paramount we keep a lid on the case even with the family, for everyone’s safety. I was meeting with Marlowe giving him a report on my status when we were caught in the storm that somehow brought us here. I’m sorry the ruse was necessary.”

  Allen and Quinn had immediately looked to Archer to confirm Vale’s account. To which my eldest brother simply said, “It was a dangerous situation, and we had no choice but the one Dad and I made in the end.”

  I can feel Vale’s eyes on me, and I breathe purposefully, concentrating on Willow’s memory, which keeps threatening to slip away. I should feel vindicated. What I had believed with every fiber of my being for an excruciatingly long time was true. He hadn’t betrayed the Division after all. But he, Archer, and Marlowe had betrayed me. Breathe. … That’s it … I graze my eyes over the room, looking for a distraction. The swaying pendulum of the brass mantel clock achieves that goal.

  Allen and his workmen had performed a miracle. One would never know to look around these beautifully appointed rooms that this wing was the worst off after the fire. It is serene in here—as if all the ghosts are happy for the moment.

  I can imagine my father’s silver-white head bent over something at the desk in the study that is now not his desk or his study. The thought doesn’t make me sad. Before today, when I closed my eyes, I would see his austere figure either among the surroundings I associated with him or the charred remains of the room. Sometimes, I would have to force myself to keep my eyes open so as not see his remains as well. I don’t want to remember him that way.

  “Tsk.” My ears perk up at the sound. “I was never your favorite person,” Archer says. “I think we’ve covered that fact.”

  Clenching my teeth, I turn to look at him. His long legs are crossed, and his hands are folded over one another over a knee. Somehow, on him, the posture looks masculine. I shift my gaze over to Vale for an instant and then back through the window. “Nor were you ever my least favorite,” I voice. I let my grimace turn into a scowl. Let them see. Maybe it will sink in what they put me through, how their combined efforts tore me apart.

  “By default; I’m your brother.”

  “We never tried though, did we—to like one another? Now I know why.” I silently beg him to ask me why. But what would I say that didn’t sound as miserable as I felt in the aftermath of knowing the facts? That I’ve only recently come to realize that he’d just cared for me the default amount too? That I hadn’t bothered to think about it because I’d had Reid, the only brother I’d ever need? That I’m not sure much has changed between us since then except now I have no one?

  He doesn’t answer, nor does he ask. He only makes that noise through his teeth again. It grates on my nerves.

  “Was there some reason you couldn’t trust me?” I know it isn’t rational to be offended, but I am. If there is one language Archer understands it is duty-speak.

  “If we had brought you into the loop, Vale would still have had to sever ties with Clarion, River. It was better everyone thought he was a traitor. There was no other way. It wasn’t a decision we made lightly.”

  I understand or want to, but I can’t forgive just now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of forgiveness when it comes to Vale. “Just tell me what happened if you think I can handle it.”

  “You know what happened,” he states without meeting my eyes.

  “Again. Except this time, I want to hear it from your mouth in your words, Archer. Who was the Division really after?”

  “Seeley Roth,” he says without the slightest hesitation.

  I release a soft gasp. That man was responsible for my mother’s death. Skye would not have been in that warehouse were it not for him. It’s beyond my ability to comprehend how my mother could have let herself become involved in such a horrible scheme, an underground organ harvesting exchange, a deal gone wrong.

  “If your father—”

  “Please,” I say, coldly. “I’ve been your sister practically from the day I was born, a St. Clair, which also means that man was never my father.”

  “Just because he didn’t raise you, doesn’t mean he wasn’t your father. Just like Willow and Skye were both your mothers.”

  “Semantics is what you want to debate now, then, is it?”

  “You’re missing the point. If Roth realized you and Vale were so closely connected, he would have found a way to manipulate you through him and then the
whole of the Division. Roth is, was, ruthless. He wants power above all else and will use any means to get it.”

  “I know he’s a criminal. Don’t forget, I worked for the Division for nearly twenty years too. And … I haven’t seen him or even thought of him for thirty-five years. In fact, if you’d seen fit to ‘let me into the loop’ the remote possibility of any kind of breach would have been remoter still. Any soft feeling I had for him that I didn’t know existed would have shriveled right up. I might be related to the man, but I’m not gullible.”

  “No one thought you were. But you—” Vale tries to interject.

  “Hell, River. You’re more than a little hardheaded.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say, and Vale flashes a grin.

  “See? You’re purposely being dense. Do more than hear, River. Try, just try to listen to what we’re telling you, and maybe it’ll sink in. Again, if you let it,” he says sharply.

  “Damn it, Archer,” I hiss, fighting the urge to say, “this is not my fault.” But the last thing I was going to let this devolve into was a case of self-defense. “Just who the hell do you think you still are? First of all, your bully tactics never worked on me, and—”

  He raises his hand and nods. “Yes, fine. Okay.” Lowering his voice, he says, “But we both know there were only three people you trusted without question. Marlowe, Reid, and Vale.”

  After a pause while I study the hard contours of his face, I say with gravity, “And you, Archer. I would have put my life in your hands. All you had to do was ask.”

  “That’s a very partial kind of trust, River; the kind expected of every agent. Isn’t that what you once told Selene and Allen? That because I was everyone’s boss, whatever I asked of you was irrefutably for the best? That I shouldn’t even have to ask?”

  I shake my head vehemently.

  “Whether you believe me or not, what mattered at the time was not how much trust there was between us. To be clear—since you seem to want to butt heads with me—despite what you think, it was never that we didn’t trust you, it was never ever as simple as that. The situation just went beyond anything we could have contained if we let the lead out too far. You had so much faith in me as … never mind, that’s getting in the weeds.” He clamps his mouth shut and clenches his teeth, the muscles of his jaw and throat working. I look at Vale. He’s leaning forward, head bowed low, shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, and hands clasped together. “We had reason to believe the specific malware in Vale’s brain was implanted by Roth’s people.”